I never want to forget the sounds I heard when I walked into a Malawian prison.
They are not the sounds you would expect – instead of yelling and shouting, it was a peaceful sound. Something so beautiful, it sounded like it was straight from a heavenly choir.
Singing.
This week I had the opportunity to visit a Malawian prison and preach to the inmates there. Our ministry host Andrew has a partnership with Prison Fellowship, an organization that reaches out to prisoners. I had an internship with Prison Fellowship in 2014, so it was amazing how it all came full circle here in Africa.
We all hopped into a pickup truck and rode about an hour away to the nearest prison in the area. We arrived to a large brick building surrounded by a security wall; there was nothing about it that would indicate it was a prison. We entered the gate and were greeted by the officer-in-charge, who led us to her office. We sat and talked for a bit and then she led us into the main building where 275 male inmates were waiting for us.
My team and I were unsure of what to expect. I have visited a prison in America, but in Africa, everything is different. When we walked into the courtyard, I was speechless: nearly 300 inmates, all men, dressed in white uniforms, were quietly clapping their hands, singing a worship song in Chichewa. Their voices harmonized perfectly; they looked like a choir of angels. I was immediately brought to tears.
In this dark place, there was so much joy, hope and life.
I couldn’t do much to contain my emotion, so I just clapped along and let the sounds of the voices wash over me while tears filled my eyes. They continued singing for a few moments and then became silent. The officer-in-charge introduced us and then we divided up the prisoners into a few smaller groups so that each of us could share a message with them.
A few moments later, I stood before a group of about 60 men inside a dark room with one door and one window. There were thin mats and tattered blankets lined up along the walls for beds; every man’s possessions were hanging from the ceiling in a small bag. The room was the size of the average school classroom. I stood before them, looking around at all their faces and struggling with words.
They were so attentive, so eager to listen. I began to share with them that I had felt so overwhelmed with emotion at their singing, and I told them I was reminded of the story in Acts when Paul and Silas are in prison, singing songs and praises and an earthquake shakes the prison doors open, but none of the prisoners escape. I talked about how they have found freedom in something greater than their physical condition.
Then I started to share with them about Barabbas. In Matthew 27, a prisoner named Barabbas stands before a crowd, next to Jesus, while the governor asks the crowd which of the two they would like to release. I asked each of the men to imagine that he was Barabbas, having never heard of Jesus, probably thinking that Jesus was a criminal just like him, and probably shocked when he heard the crowd shouting his own name to be freed. Barabbas’ life was changed forever by a man he had never met – he was given freedom in a way he never deserved. I told them that we are all like Barabbas – deserving of punishment but freed by grace because Jesus took our place.
After I finished sharing, we gave them each a bar of laundry soap, and as I gave it to them, I told them that each time they washed their clothes, I wanted them to remember to put on their new self, like it says in Colossians 3, and put off the old self of malice, anger and idolatry. I encouraged them to put on meekness, humility, and patience, and above all, put on love.
At the end, they sang a song for me in Chichewa, and I couldn’t hold back the tears. I just clapped along, and later the interpreter told me what the song meant:
Aliyemweyo yesu
Samasindha
Jesus is the same,
He doesn’t change.
I hope these beautiful words sink deep in your heart like they did for me.
